


Bonica82

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 04:29:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11478618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Goldberry stops in to see.





	Bonica82

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for “Witch” for [this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/162565904960/prompt-list-3).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Up the grass she goes, still damp from the evening rain, and it squishes delightfully beneath her bare toes. Goldberry laughs as she walks for only this: the pleasantness of it all, of the fresh air, the open skies, and the quaint little river that weaves through these lands. The people here are stout and sweet, though some scowl at her, and she hears them whisper: _“Witch”_ behind her back. But when she isn’t looking, they plant nice things and help them grow. They’re peaceful, and they don’t fell all the trees.

She likes them. She rarely walks amongst them, hasn’t for some time, only heard stories here and there from others passing through. She wanted to go _see_ with her own eyes, and Tom understood, always understands; he’s never tried to chain her down. They’re open in all things. And she’ll return to him. But for now, he has his pleasures and she has hers, and she follows the riverside to watch the new stars dance across its surface.

The lights in some of the funny houses are still flickering, held in little candles below the earth. She likes their homes, their holes, and the way they let the greenery climb right up the sides. She passes buildings not quite as tall as her, and then she finds a long, low one with a wooden sign above her door, and Goldberry thinks: _here_. This is where she’ll rest, if not the riverbed. She wants to speak with them and hear their songs.

The door is heavy, the hall inside brighter than the moonlight outside, and the floor is strange against her feet. She drifts in anyway, and all eyes fall to her. _Witch, witch_ , they murmur, but she doesn’t mind. She gives them smiles, and some of them waver. Then some smile back. And she sees that they sit at tables not unlike Tom’s, so she finds one with no people at it and descends there, onto a wooden bench.

At first, the room is very quiet, though she heard a great ruckus from it while she wandered outdoors. Now they’re all busy looking at her, then whispering behind their hands. Slowly, drinks are poured and consumed, clanked against one another, and finally they return to all their stories, but none yet with song.

She waits for a time, wondering what she’s meant to do, until a beautiful woman comes up to her table. The woman smiles with her pink lips and white teeth and glimmering eyes, honey-coloured curls all about her head. She greets, “We don’t see a lot of Big Folks ‘round these parts.” And Goldberry just tilts her head, wondering if she’s _big_. She’s more slender than these people, but she is taller than her Tom. The woman asks, “What can I get you?”

“A song,” Goldberry says, to which the woman just giggles, pretty and sweet like the sound of fresh rain in the spring.

“I’m afraid I’m not much good at that,” she’s told, “But Mr. Baggins is often in here around this time, and he has a voice that doubles the tips.” Goldberry doesn’t understand. The woman asks more clearly, “What can I get you _to drink_?”

“Oh,” Goldberry starts, and, “water, please,” which seems to confuse the woman as much as Goldberry already is. The woman seems to wait for more, so Goldberry adds, “My name is Goldberry.”

“Rosie,” the woman answers, smiling, and Goldberry thinks it must be her name, because she looks very much like a rose: blooming ripe and pretty.

When Goldberry says nothing else, Rosie leaves, and a few minutes later, she returns, holding a mug of clear water in her hand. She sets it on the table and asks, “Anything else?”

Goldberry hadn’t thought so, but now she muses, “The pleasure of your company, I think,” and it’s worth it when Rosie flushes pink across her cheeks like a budding chrysanthemum. 

Rosie looks towards the place where she appeared from. But then she takes the seat across from Goldberry and asks, “So... where are you from?”

And Goldberry doesn’t know quite how to say it, so she sings her answer.


End file.
